Colors
by agents-of-ships
Summary: Unrelated Clint/Natasha one-shots based on colors. Red: His words are like knives, and all she can focus on is how sharp they are. / White: She's numb, now. / Blue: Shot and surrounded by blue waves—she's helpless. /on hold due to lack of inspiration and motivation/
1. Red

**Red**

He's yelling at her. It's hard to focus on what he says, all she notices is how his words cut through the air. He's speaking so loudly and with such feeling. His words are like knives, and all she can focus on is how sharp they are. She doesn't yell back, doesn't even know what he's yelling about. Knows she should listen, but it's so intense. The words hit hard and fast, and she doesn't want to hit back. _Listen to the conversation. God damn, Natasha, listen to him._ So she makes herself listen.

 _"—_ _could've died! For no reason! God, Natasha, I know you're not listening. You— It doesn't make sense!"_

She knows what he's talking about. Hell, she knew what he was talking about before he started talking.

Throwing herself in front of him. In a mission. Both of them had done it before, but this time she hadn't needed to. Hadn't needed to. (She had needed to.) Bullet ripping through her side. His hands holding her. His hands with her blood on them. Blood all over. Hurts. Him screaming.

Laying in the hospital bed. (Lying? Laying.) His absence— His appearance. His jaw locked tight to keep the screams out.

Later, home. Home? Her apartment. (Not home.) Now. Screams let loose.

 _I had to._ She sounds so weak, the words in her head are so weak. Natasha Romanoff is not weak. _I had to. I had to. I had to. I had to. I had to._ She was not made to be so weak. ( _I was not made to be a person,_ she reminds herself) Still. Weak.

"I had to."

"No, you didn't."

He's right, of course. If she hadn't jumped in the way, he would have still been able to move in time.

"I had to."

She's going to have to explain. How can she explain?

"Natasha."

Oh, he says her name in many different ways. This time is furious. This time is normal volume, but the way he says it— It hurts worse than the yells.

She smiles. Be weak. "I owe you a debt," she spits, words overused. "I tried to pay it back."

Crumbling. His face changes flashes through every emotion.

"You—"

"I had to."

He looks at her with something. She thinks it's pity. Pity. His eyes won't leave hers.

Anger burns in her stomach. _So weak, child. '_ Love is for children' rings in her head. Weak like a child. Humans are children? This—being a "child"—is normal.

No. She is weak. Mostly she is strong. She will not crack. She will not become a child, an average human. She is so much more than average, fire burning in her throat.

 **Author's note: Hey. So, this is bit different from what I usually write. For one thing, it is written in present tense, and it focuses a lot on Natasha's thoughts. Her thoughts are in italics, but the whole is written with her thoughts and feelings in mind. So. I wanted to write Colors because Senses was ending. But this is quite different. Also, none of these one-shots will relate. I'm not sure if they will all be in present tense. Anyway, I'm not quite sure how I feel about this. I may end up re-writing a chapter for Red and writing this one-shot collection in the usual past-tense, less thought-focused way. Please give me some input! Thanks.**


	2. White

**White**

She's sitting next to him on the couch. The tv is on, mainly just for white noise. She can see the snow falling outside. His hand is resting on top of hers— she's not sure what it means, but she likes it. Clint pulls the blanket tighter around him— he's not as immune to the cold.

 **beep**

Clint's phone beeps, and he checks it.

"A mission," he says.

"Where are we going?" She hadn't wanted to be interrupted, but it's okay if she's with Clint.

"It's just me."

It's been an awfully long time since either of them has gone on a mission without the other. She feels like throwing up. But he's looking at her for reassurance, his eyes plead for her to tell him it's okay.

"Oh. Well, good luck." She musters as much of a smile as she can. She can sense his unease, she can see the tension in his shoulders, but he nods.

He gets up, and he says, "I'll be back before tonight." His fingers are on her face suddenly, gently running along the line of her jaw. He clenches his hand, and breathes deeply.

He's gone far too soon. _He'll be back before the night._ She still has a horrible feeling that something will go wrong.

The tv stays on the whole day, but it's just noise. She watches the snow fall.

She realizes that hours have passed. Lunch time has come and gone, and the snow isn't even falling anymore. She gets up, trying to pull herself out of the trance.

She walks outside, the cold air stinging her face. The white of the snow is so bright and blinding. She stays there for a while— she's not sure how long. She's numb, now. Her body is numb from the cold and her eyes are numb from all the white and her heart is numb from missing him.

Dinner is noodles from a cup. She's not hungry, but she eats anyway.

After she's done eating, she looks outside and notices how dark it is. It's night. She feels sick.

 _I should pray._ She's not sure where the thought comes from. She's never prayed before, she's not religious. Neither of them are. Clint doesn't have a religion, but he does believe in god. She's heard him talk to god on a few occasions.

She remembers one time she heard him pray. She was lying in the hospital bed. She knew that her skin was as white as the sheets. He doesn't know she's awake, and his head is down and his eyes are closed.

"Please, god, let her live. I don't care about anything else. Burn the world down, tear my body to shreds, just let her be okay."

"Clint," she chokes out. Her throat feels like sandpaper.

When he looks at her his eyes are filled with tears. His hands are shaking, but he's smiling.

She's not religious at all. She doesn't believe in god, not really. She knows there's no way to know for sure, but she doubts god exists. But the thought plagues her brain. _Pray._

She has never prayed before, not once. She supposes she should get on her knees. Who would've thought she'd be praying to a god she didn't believe in. But she is. She closes her eyes, too, because it feels like she should. She starts to pray in her head, but then thinks it might be better to say it out loud.

"Dear god…" _No clue how to do this._ "I have a request. I, uh, there's this guy, Clint Barton. I want him to be okay, and I want him to come home. I…Don't know if you exist, and if you have the power to change things and this feels really weird. But if there's chance to help him, then I'll try. He's strong, I know that. He's probably fine. But it doesn't feel fine. It doesn't feel fine to me, and it didn't feel fine to him either. I want it to be fine, please let it be fine."

She opens her eyes, and stares at the white beyond the window. It's such a big world to get lost in. _He's not lost. He knows how to get out of anything. He's okay._ She swallows, there's a lump in her throat. She breathes. She still feels numb.

He doesn't come home that night.

 **Author's note: As you can probably already tell, this won't be updated daily. Just as often as I get around to writing, which isn't much, but whatever. By the way, basically the whole plot for this chapter was suggested by DemigodPrefect:** ** _Idea: Clintasha is curled up on the couch, enjoying off time, when Clint gets an alert on his StarkTab from Fury. Urgent mission, without Nat, for the first time in a long time. That night, when he doesn't come back, Nat prays, even though she isn't religious, for the first time in years, that he'll come home safely._** ** _._** **Also a line from this is an alteration of a lyric from a song(Breakeven by The Script). Thanks for reading. I kind of miss Senses, but these have the possibility to be longer, so that's a good thing.**


	3. Blue

**Blue**

Blue has always been her favorite color. Wishful thinkers may think his eyes inspired her love for the color, but that is simply untrue.

Natasha fell in love with blue when she was a young girl, looked away with blood and ballet. On the missions she'd finally get a taste of life outside the Red Room. She'd look up, and she'd see the sky, something she didn't get to see very often. So she associates blue with freedom.

Blue isn't always freedom for her. Once, on a mission, she gets shot. And she falls into the crashing blue waves. The blue tugs and her, and suffocates her. It's still her favorite color. Shot and surrounded by blue waves—she's helpless. There's nothing she can do. That's a rare thing for her. She has no control when she's surrounded by all the blue, and she loves it even though it's deadly.

She doesn't die, of course. She gains enough control. But still.

She associates blue with freedom and helplessness.

Later, he takes her in. They put her in a room. He explains the situation. He has blue eyes. She's not sure who he is, and she doesn't trust him, but— he didn't kill her. And that means something.

He becomes her partner, friend, world.

She associates blue with freedom and helplessness and _him_.

 **Author's note: I really love writing Colors, even more than Senses. I wrote Senses in a time crunch, and in specified word count chunks. This I can write when I want, and as short or as long as I want, and I love it. God, I love Clintasha so much. Writing Clintasha is my favorite.**


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